


the weather outside is frightful

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, featuring known chef brandon tanev, just dudes being babes and spending the night together, the jets rlly said homo promo huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 17:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17605949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: Adam pulls his glove off and reaches out to touch his thumb to Brandon’s cheek, dusting off the flour. “Am I interrupting something?”“Yes, actually,” Brandon says bluntly.





	the weather outside is frightful

**Author's Note:**

> i think we all know by now that adam 6’5” of gay lowry laid a big one on his buddy brandon during a skip the dishes commercial yesterday and this is a uhh direct result of that
> 
> i’ve wanted to write my boys for so long i.......wow crying 
> 
> give the jets the love they deserve challenge🤧💘💕🌈🙌

When Adam knocks, Brandon answers the door with flour streaked against his cheek, an unimpressed look on his face, and a hoodie he’s just about swimming in. It might be reflexive, when a gust of wind sends him curling in on himself, but he backs away and looks even more peeved. As if that’s even possible at this point. 

“Just get in,” Brandon snaps under his breath, making room for Adam to step in and block off the weather behind them. The weather cold enough that Adam’s eyelashes are literally frozen together. 

“Hi to you, too,” he offers, and kicks off his shoes which are all but piling with snow. It scatters flakes all over Brandon’s doormat, but he doesn’t seem to care, watching with careful eyes. 

“You didn’t call first,” he says, and Adam wonders if he’s making up the suspicion in his voice. “Is something wrong? What happened? Did goat boy do something again.” 

“Who’s goat boy,” Adam asks, because it’s all that really caught his attention, but it clicks about a second later. And, yeah, even when it’s fifty below zero, that’s still the Brandon he‘s known for just about ever. “Oh, Patty. Right—no, the zoo’s for sure closed. I just wanted to drop by. Um.” He pulls his glove off and reaches out to touch his thumb to Brandon’s cheek, dusting off the flour. “Am I interrupting something?” 

“Yes, actually,” Brandon says bluntly, but he still lets Adam swipe the residue off his cheek, looking unfazed. “I‘m a pastry chef, man, you gotta make an appointment with me. My time is very precious.” 

“Is it?” 

Brandon takes his jacket before Adam has time to protest, hanging it up in the closet. “I pour my heart and soul into every one of my creations and that takes _energy_ and you’re here with your—you, sucking up all the good vibes.” He sticks his hands into his hoodie pocket and Adam’s really starting to think it isn’t even his hoodie. It’s way too fucking big. 

“I’ve been here for less than a minute,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes. It feels fond, he hopes that’s not how it came off, but it did feel stupidly fond. He’s gone soft on Brandon, he swears. 

“That’s your problem, a minute in and you destroy all the good energy, what am I supposed to do now?” He lets out this long suffering sigh, looking utterly despaired, even if the corners of his lips are turning up.

“I can help,” Adam offers, grinning at him. “Show me your wreck.” 

“Okay, first, rude,” he says, waiting for Adam to follow after him once he takes a step towards the kitchen. “Second, it’s not a wreck. You’re gonna make it a wreck.” 

Adam eyes Brandon to read up on just how genuine he’s being when he says that, but Brandon’s pursing his lips so it’s pretty hard to come through with a set conclusion. So, “you’re the wreck,” he says, and tacks that as a W. 

“Yeah?” Brandon still looks unimpressed, because there’s no possible way for Adam to get through to him when he’s visibly cold _and_ in the middle of baking, which is somewhere between a casual pastime and an olympic sport for him. There might be something self-deprecating in his expression, but it shifts quick enough that Adam can’t actually peg it. “I can’t wait to shut you up with my cookies, you’re all talk and no talent.” 

“Talk to me when you can cook up a hotter bowl of mac and cheese than I can and I might consider you having, like, some talent in the kitchen,” Adam says. “On the most minimal scale at least.”

“Tough crowd.” Brandon goes straight to the large mixing bowl he’s got sitting on the counter the second they step back into the kitchen and he spares Adam a glance, but doesn’t say anything. So Adam assumes he’s welcomed to hang out anywhere. They’re really just like that. 

“Are those chocolate chip?” Adam asks. “Because if they’re not, I wouldn’t even be surprised. You seem like a raisin guy.”

“Take that _back_.” 

“Raisin cookies and oatmeal, that’s your pre-game, right? Tell me I’m right on the money.” Adam’s grinning when Brandon leaves his spot just to swat at his shoulder. “This is why, if you ask politely, I’ll cook for you.”

“I don’t want your garbage KD.” Brandon stirs his dough with a big spoon. It looks rubbery and he doesn’t glance up at Adam until the bowl stops sending powder everywhere. “You somehow manage to make fake cheese taste even _faker_. It’s like cheese with plastic surgery. And chemicals. Except the chemicals are your cooking.” 

“Not nice.” 

“You came into _my_ house and in my house I‘m facts only,” Brandon tells him, and squints down at his dough. His features are perfectly concentrated, squinted eyes, pinched brows, and then he sets down the bowl. 

“That was really intimate,” Adam comments with the best shit-eating grin he can pull together, which—judging by the glares he’s gotten from the guys—is pretty goddamn brutal. “I never get looks like that from you.”

Brandon pulls out something that looks like a smaller version of an ice cream scooper, and begins shovelling the dough. Adam’s confused for all of two seconds until he sets the scooped dough down on the tray layered with parchment paper, and oh. That’s how he gets them so perfect. 

“Well, that’s because you’re ugly and cookie dough is a ten,” Brandon says, waving his icecream cookie scooper hybrid at him.

“I mean, half of that is right,” Adam says. “50% is a pass.”

“You must’ve dropped out of high school then.”

“Hm, should’ve,” Adam hums, and presses his hip to the counter. “Wanna let me lick the spoon?” 

Brandon raises his eyebrows, his lips just barely twitching up like he can’t help but smile. “Do you want, like, salmonella.” 

Adam could say a number of things here, a fucking _number_ , multiple. But he goes for, “I wasn’t talking about _that_ spoon,” and watches Brandon gape at him for a good two seconds before he can even get anything out.

“Just come lick the _actual_ spoon, you ass,” Brandon says and hands him the mixing spoon. “I’m never letting you live that down, by the way.” 

“The salmonella’s not gonna let me live anything down either,” Adam returns and eats the dough anyways. 

 

 

“I’m gonna let you try a cookie in confidence that you won’t melt on the spot,” Brandon says, scooping up a cookie and dropping it in Adam’s hand like a set of car keys. “You know, from how good it is.”

“I’ve had your cookies before, they’re not that good.”

Brandon nods his head, but his face makes him look completely unconvinced. Probably because, “Hey, promise me,” he says. “Or else I’m gonna be the one driving you out to the hospital.” 

“You—I can’t stand you,” Adam tells him, taking a bite of the cookie. 

It’s a little unfair that Brandon knew before Adam had even tried it that it would be a good ass cookie, because it is. Brandon’s been making cookies since before they even knew each other, before he started making cookies for _him_. So, seeing Brandon’s coy face smiling at him while he’s got chocolate chips melting in his mouth is the most he can take. 

“Stop it,” Adam says. “That thing you’re doing with your face, don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything with my face,” Brandon tells him, all while while he’s got his lips turned up at one end. Now that’s the most contradicting shit in the world. 

Adam rolls his eyes and Brandon starts looking at him like his validation is really all that’ll make this feel worth it. Which is stupid. It’s not. “You know it’s good, you just wanna hear me say it.” 

“I do,” Brandon says, smiling. “And you should. You should say it. Tell me I’m worthy of my own cooking show.” 

“A cooking show,” Adam parrots, taking another bite of the cookie despite wanting to maintain at least a fraction of his dignity. 

“Yeah man, hockey’s just paying the rent. I’ve got dreams.” 

Adam sighs, heavy, like he doesn’t have chocolatey heaven sitting in his hand. Brandon looks perfectly happy giving him these eyes that Adam just _can’t read_. “Fine. They’re good. Like, really good. Surprised?”

Brandon makes a considering noise, taking a cookie for himself. “Nope.” 

 

 

Brandon’s got probably every reason to kick Adam out of the house once the sun starts setting, but he doesn’t. They’re sitting on the carpet in Brandon’s living room looking at magazines with kitchen appliances, and recipes, and articles from chefs with names Adam can’t even pronounce, let alone recognize. But Brandon looks so fucking content about experiencing this shit with _Adam_.

He’s got a magazine flipped to a recipe for brownies with little M&M’s sprinkled through out, and he’s leaning in close to show Adam and fawn about how fucking gorgeous they look. 

Brandon’s a warm line of heat where he’s pressed to Adam, shoulder to shoulder, and in just that moment everything else fades a little. It’s not the pile of magazines, or the brownies, or the thought of him staying here for way longer than he’s probably welcome, but it’s _Brandon_ that does it.

And Adam doesn’t—he doesn’t know what that means. That the second Brandon’s against him, nothing else matters, that he thinks he can listen to him talk about brownies for fucking ever. Just as long as he’s here and Brandon’s right there.

He tries to swallow that all down, even if it gives him this lump in his throat that he really doesn’t know what to do with. He feels it click, tries to ignore it. 

“—I don’t think anyone should ever limit themselves to just weed as a bomb addition to brownies. Like, M&M’s? They’re _all_ that,” Brandon says, and looks up at Adam when he pulls back. “Right? What else.”

“Smarties,” Adam suggests, as in—the chocolate ones. Not that powdery American shit. 

“Smarties are like off brand M&M’s.” Brandon flips the page, his fingers are deft and gentle where they skim the pages. “They’re B-list, Walmart, Irrelevant.” 

“Brandon.”

“Yeah?” Brandon looks up from the page he’s on now. There’s a woman smiling up at them from the magazine, holding a fork in her hand. Adam’s a little concerned because nobody’s _that_ happy around utensils. 

“Who hurt you,” Adam asks. “Was it Smarties. The CEO? They didn’t give you a sponsorship, is that it?”

“Shut up,” Brandon says, but he’s grinning when he catches Adam’s gaze. There’s something under his expression, something that softens everything, and Adam tears his eyes away just to look back down at his own magazine.

There’s a perfectly crafted cake sitting on the next page he flips to, and he asks, “hey, have you ever considered making cake? Have you ever tried?”

“Once,” Brandon says, his voice twisting ruefully. “At least once, I’m sure. But that—I don’t wanna talk about that.”

“But.” Adam frowns. “We’re friends, you can trust me,” he tells him, as if he has to assure Brandon. Hey, all things considered, he probably does. “I’ll ask Chris if you don’t.” 

“Chris wasn’t even there,” he says, but he glances to his hands for a fraction of a second, the slightest glimpse, and Adam knows his ticks. He knows he’s lying. 

“You’re lying,” he sings, leaning in close like anyone else in this very empty room could overhear their conversation. Adam doesn’t even care if it’s stupid, he’s not opposed to being this close. Because. Brandon’s got a nice face and jokes, like, why not.

He’s almost too taken aback at that whole train of thought to push this any further, but that’s right when Brandon gives in. When his hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck and he gives Adam this small sheepish smile. “I was 16, okay, keep that in mind.”

Adam’s already smiling, so he tries to bite that back. Just to make this a little easier on Brandon. “Sure thing.”

“I was a kid, I didn’t know any better, and carrot cake seemed like a great idea to try making at 3 AM on a school night while I was cramming for an exam, and—“

“Brandon, breathe,” Adam tries, and Brandon makes a disapproving face at him when he laughs halfway through saying it. 

“The fire alarm went off?” Brandon says it like a question, his voice lilting near the end, and, “the fire alarm definitely went off,” he repeats, a lot more sure.

“Oh my god.”

“I fell asleep and I had no idea how to use the fire extinguisher,” he laughs out. “My brother was, like, ready to kill me because our parents were out of town so you can’t _imagine_ the talk I got from him that night.“

“Chris saved your ass though?” He asks, because that seems like a Chris thing to do, clean up after Brandon’s dumb baking fuck ups. Adam could totally take over that responsibility. He wouldn’t mind

“Can you believe he knew how to use a fire extinguisher?” 

“Most people do.”

“Well,” Brandon starts quickly, “I didn’t. Nobody teaches you how to use a fire extinguisher, also—I was _16_.” 

Adam scoffs. “Lame excuse.”

“You’re lame.” Brandon takes the magazine from Adam’s lap, looking at the cake pictured on his page. Adam doesn’t really know enough about cake to name it from the image, so thank god for the big bold letters spelling out _Quick and Easy Mango Meringue Cake_. 

“Seems a little gross, don’t you think?” Brandon asks, looking up at Adam. It’s that same look from earlier with the cookies, when Brandon’s face had shifted from condescending to something caring. Like he really wants Adam’s opinion. He’s not sure what to make of that.

“That’s just because you’re allergic to anything fruit related,” Adam says, keeping his voice mocking as he takes back the magazine. “At least you’ll get part of your core food groups if you make this.”

“And burn the house down?”

“If that’s the sacrifice you have to make for quality cake.” Adam shrugs, and a smile takes over his face when it gets a laugh out of Brandon.

“I’ll make you cake, don’t worry, you just gotta have, like. A fire extinguisher on standby, that would probably be best.” 

“I’m ready for it,” Adam says, grinning, and grabs another magazine. 

 

 

The thing is: Brandon can bake, but he can’t cook. 

Adam was convinced there wasn’t any difference between the two because he knows his way around a kitchen well enough to get away with a slice of toast just about unburnt plus a bowl of KD, but Brandon’s, “you’re wrong, there’s a huge difference and here’s why,” speech convinced him otherwise. 

So, Brandon convinces Adam to stay for probably the latest dinner he’s ever had and they order out because it’s a lot better than half assed sandwiches topped off with fucking ketchup. 

Maybe it should be concerning that they both agree potato wedges and wraps from Tim Hortons is the best they can do for dinner, but the guy that delivers it all to them doesn’t give them any looks, so this is fine. 

Adam helps Brandon set their stuff down at the table and gives him a look while he peeks into their bag suspiciously. “They always forget something I swear,” he tells him, as if to wipe away the confused look Adam hadn’t even been sure he was wearing. 

“Probably because you order so much from them, a lot to live up to,” Adam says, sliding into his seat as Brandon pulls the boxes out of the bag. 

“I don’t order _that_ much, I get out of the house,” he says. “Sometimes. When it’s not minus fifty degrees outside, actually. Because some of us aren’t crazy.

“So, cake kid’s gonna call me crazy. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I told you that in confidence.” Brandon shakes his head, looking disappointed, but it melts away when he unseals his wrap. Probably because looking at magazines for an hour can really take a lot out of a guy. 

“Hey, also, I trekked through this weather to visit a friend,” Adam adds. “A friend I will love and support through all of his shortcomings. Like, the cake.”

“I don’t even know you anymore,” Brandon says. “You’ve hurt me. Exactly where it counts.” He pats his chest, right over his heart.

Adam looks at his hand, for a little too long actually. It’s like his gaze sticks and won’t let itself let go, especially after Brandon curls his hand around his wrap. 

His mouth dries out like he’s eaten a spoonful of salt, and Adam could do a lot about this, like stop. Or bury his face in food. Or turn his head. But he doesn’t.

“Are you gonna eat your food, man?” Brandon says around a bite. “Because I’ll do it, no problem.”

Adam lets out a little laugh, it startles him, but he grins at Brandon. One of his big stupid grins and Brandon huffs out a chuckle, nudging his leg under the table.

 

 

Adam lets Brandon pick at his box of potato wedges after he’s done his own, because Brandon paid for the food in the first place. He offers them up without actually saying it, apparently, since they’re empty by the time he’s picking up the other boxes, dropping them into the brown Tim Hortons bag.

“Thanks, man,” Brandon says, and when he touches Adam’s shoulder while he’s getting up to throw the bag into the trash, Adam’s overcome with this, like, _feeling_.

He doesn’t know what to call it, when his chest swells and he feels full, not from the food, but from the warmth of Brandon’s fingers, how they’d brushed down his shoulder as he left. It’s strong and unavoidable, and Adam’s left feeling it even after Brandon comes back. 

When Brandon says, “I should really throw you out, but I don’t really want to.” It’s all of it, the smile on his lips, the affection beneath his eyes, the way just a look from him can get Adam weak. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s there. 

“Is that you admitting you like having me around?” Adam asks, and tries not to wince because his voice might not have been as smooth as it felt rolling off his tongue. A little uneven, like waves, but Brandon keeps watching him. 

“I like that you know how to use a fire extinguisher,” Brandon tells him and looks over his shoulder at the cookies still sitting on the cooling rack. “Because if those randomly combusted, you’d be all over that.”

Adam doesn’t follow Brandon’s gaze to the cookies, just keeps his attention focused on the side of his face. The curve of his lips, the easy expression, the way his eyes flicker back to Adam. 

“I mean. I hope they don’t combust because I ate one,” Adam says. 

“You definitely ate more than one

“I ate a _few_.”

“Ultimatum. I’ll admit I like your company when you admit my cookies are, like, mind-meltingly delicious,” Brandon explains with a set in his shoulders, like he’s negotiating a contract. “Or however you describe them in your fantasies.”

“Okay, no.” Adam’s still sitting in his chair and he’s suddenly hyper aware of the fact that Brandon’s all but leaning over him, a hand braced on the table. And Adam’s got a perfect view of that hoodie from earlier, the baggy thing that he’s been clinging to all night, and he. Just. 

That’s when it clicks. 

“I mean, maybe if you admit you’re wearing _my_ hoodie,” Adam snaps, and tugs on the sleeve closest to him, showing it off.

“I—“ Brandon blinks at him like he wasn’t expecting Adam to recognize his own clothes, and how the fuck did it take him this long to realize it. Really. “You left it at my place, man, finders keepers.”

“You weren’t gonna give it back, or?” 

“I mean, did you not know this was yours?” He scoffs, and Adam wonders if Brandon will actually give it back because—now that he’s sure it’s his, now that he _knows_ , that feeling in his chest is a lot stronger. It makes his stomach ache, swirl just like it does before he gets on a death-defying roller coaster. 

He likes seeing Adam in his hoodie, he thinks. Maybe it’s what’s been setting him the fuck off, seeing him like that. And Adam doesn’t even care. Because this is good, he likes this. Likes this a lot. 

If Brandon wants his hoodie, he’ll hand it over. He just can’t let him know that. 

“I forgot it was mine,” Adam says simply, putting up much less of a protest than he thinks he would’ve originally. If he’d caught Brandon at the door when he was first coming in. “Finders keepers, right.” 

Brandon looks a little shellshocked, like he isn’t completely sure what to do with that, and Adam gets it. Adam’s got a big mouth and he doesn’t know exactly how to shut up when he has to, but now is a good time to not shut up. 

“You’re messing with me.” 

“What on earth gives you the idea that I’m messing with you,” Adam says, but he’s smiling when he says it, and Brandon flips him off. “It’s huge on you, by the way.”

“No kidding.” Brandon’s lips part like he’s really shocked. “Anyways, this is mine now. And you gotta live with it.”

“Oh no,” Adam says. He doesn’t come off as heartbroken and he doesn’t even need an internal crisis to figure that one out. 

“You’re the worst.”

Adam nods his head, propping it up on his palm as innocently as he can. “But you like it.”

Brandon smiles at him. It’s small and soft and makes Adam rethink whether or not he’s going to have a heart attack by the end of the night.

Because Brandon doesn’t deny it, not even with a chirp. He just says, “we really gotta clean up the magazines in the living room.” And he’s out of the kitchen like that, calling for Adam to hurry up.

 

 

The magazines fill up an entire cardboard box to the brink and Adam‘s sure that they’re going to spill out all at once the second either of them tries picking it up. Brandon doesn’t seem too bothered, just lies back against the carpet, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything, lips sealed like he’s keeping in a secret, and Adam watches him for a minute. 

“Did you just die?” He asks, ignoring the box to sit down next to Brandon. He pokes his leg like it’s really a possibility and that gets a tiny laugh past his lips. 

“I’m obviously stargazing.” 

Adam isn’t sure why he’s gotta look up to really confirm that Brandon doesn’t have stars taped to his ceiling. It might be the tone of his voice, something convincing and hopeful. Adam just lies down next to him, because, okay. They’re doing this now. 

It’s late, they’re tired, what can you do, really. 

“I like stargazing,” Adam tells him.

“Me, too.” Brandon’s hand brushes his, just not nearly long enough for him to formulate a reaction, like holding on. Adam isn’t sure why that’s the first thing that comes to mind, but he doesn’t think it’s unwelcome. 

Because, “not gonna let me hold your hand? It’d make staring at the ceiling a lot more romantic,” Adam says.

Brandon turns his head to look at the side of his face and Adam looks back, keeping his smile gentle. Maybe tentative. He watches Brandon look down at their hands, waits for rejection, maybe. Or a joke. 

And then, “it would,” Brandon says, and takes Adam’s hand against the carpet. When they turn their heads back, all Adam can really think about is the warmth that crawls up his arm. The way Brandon‘s entwined their fingers and it lets Adam acknowledge everything he’s felt for him, _really_ felt for him. 

It twists in his chest and takes his heart in its fist, squeezing. Adam feels a faint breath leave his lips, nervous, and lets his eyes slide shut. 

 

 

“Adam,” is what pulls him awake “Adam, hey.” Brandon’s voice is quiet, void of any edges. He says his name in that beautiful way he always does. That same way that makes everything else feel so, so far away.

Adam knows it’s not just because he’s dazed that he realizes that feeling he’s been feeling—that something inside of him, it’s this raw wanting he’d never known he had. Brandon’s hand is still on his. He’s gently shaking him awake, but their hands are clasped like they’re cuffed together.

Adam doesn’t even know what to say. Every thought in his head seems wrong.

“Hey,” Brandon says for him. “You disappeared on me.” 

“I’m right here.” 

“You know what I mean.” He lies back down, his head positioned on Adam’s shoulder this time. “It’s late anyways, we should sleep. You can’t—you shouldn’t drive. Not in this weather especially.”

Adam’s stayed the night at Brandon’s enough that the guest room is practically his, the drawers full of things he’s left over, so it’s not like Brandon’s actually going to let him leave. He tries anyways, says, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“Shut up, don’t lie,” Brandon says, and even that comes out without sounding vicious. “Are you saying you don’t wanna stay?” 

“I’m saying—I could make it.” 

Brandon looks up at him, chin tipped. “I’d take full offence if you tried driving half asleep in the snow instead of staying the night.” He’s wearing a smile that definitely doesn’t convince Adam, but there’s no point in pushing any further. 

So, “Okay, you got me,” he says.

“Finally.” Brandon pats his chest and goes to leave. Like, he’s clearly getting up, so there's no reason to keep him back, but Adam holds onto his hand. 

He isn’t sure what he’s doing, but.

“What happened?” Brandon asks. He’s sitting up now, almost looking worried, and Adam keeps his gaze fixed on Brandon’s face like looking anywhere else would make him disappear. “Adam,” he says again. Still soft, still gentle, still Brandon.

“You know I like you, right?” Adam says, nothing more. Because he knows he gets everything he wants to across just with that.

Brandon blinks at him, but he doesn’t look taken aback. A little more sure than Adam would’ve expected, the way his mouth lifts up into something confident. “And do you know how long I’ve waited for you to say that?” 

“What?” 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for—for the longest time. Did you know that?”

“You never did,” Adam tells him, like it isn’t common knowledge between them. “You didn’t try, I know _that_. I would’ve liked it. If you did.”

Brandon does look a little surprised now, now that Adam’s looking for it. “I wasn’t sure.”

“I showed up to your house unannounced and watched you bake cookies. We looked at magazines—baking ones for moms,” he says, because he’s pretty sure he was giving out cues. “We ate cookies together, I let you wear my hoodie.”

“I told you my dumbass cake story,” Brandon returns. “I let you stay over this long, bought you dinner, and I.” He gestures at their hands and makes a face, a little like _oh, we’re stupid_. 

“Seriously,” Adam laughs out.

Brandon cracks a smile right back in his direction. “I think this means you should kiss me.”

Adam, now that he really has permission, doesn’t wait another second just to lean in and kiss him, to get his lips on Brandon’s and really let himself feel it. It’s only a few seconds, where Adam can touch his cheek and press in, hold him close like he’s been wanting to. There’s a hint of teeth on his lips, getting his breath to catch in his throat and maybe—maybe when they’re doing this somewhere other than Brandon’s living room carpet Adam could let himself take that and run with it. 

For now, he just floats, all until Brandon pulls back and lingers. “Sleep, we should sleep.” 

“We should,” Adam says, but he doesn’t get up without sneaking in another kiss.

They’re still holding hands.


End file.
